The Chronicles of Istovir Claddath
by Musique et Amour
Summary: These are a few older writings I did, hence what might be atrocious grammar, and I wanted to have a place for them. Istovir, who often goes by Venorik Silinrul, is a Drow who always seems to have a run of bad luck. Newer snippits are to follow.
1. To Ched Nasad

"Lloth be praised. You surprise me still, Hunter," she laughed softly as she looked over the documentation of the incident. She wanted an accident and she got one. The one the woman sought to be killed was 'accidentally' struck down by a cart, her chest pierced by a piece of wood.

If one bothered looking over things with a more critical eye, perhaps they would have noticed that it was directly between third and forth rib. Dena'veil rose eyes of dark amethyst to the one that stood before her in such a militant pose. His face impassive, as well as that dark garnet gaze.

"Kneel."

Without hesitation he lowered, meeting the ground with one knee, then the other. His chin dipped, bringing the cowl of _piwafwi_ to faintly shift. Raising her legs she placed one upon his poised shoulder, the arch of her foot rested delicately upon the cloth covered metal. If he looked up he would surely get a rather nice view. That was the point – she always did try to tempt him.

"There is another job you have been scheduled for, in Ched Nasad. Someone wishes you to rid the House Zauviir of their Matron and first daughter." Sliding her foot from his shoulder the tip of toes rested beneath his chin, and canted it up slightly. While his head lifted, his eyes remained lowered, half-lidded. Outwardly no expression crossed his face, but inwardly…inwardly was a completely different thing.

Her toes curled lightly within the cloth of tunic and fine mithril mail as she continued, her voice a lulling purr. "But first, there is a job you have to do. Here."

Was she attempting to make him sick to his stomach? It was working. Hooking her foot within the chain of the pouch set about his neck she lured him closer, pulling him from his knelt position and to her. Once near he would be instructed on what to do exactly to seek to her pleasure and not his own.

The moment was impassioned…at least for one person.

Like a well oiled machine, he simply did what he must, and without much thought.

* * *

"Ist--" The male's words were cut off by a quick glance given in his direction.

"Hunter...Hunter. I'm sorry." It was Dena'veil's Patron. A skittish thing he always had the urge to do away with. Timidly he approached, lowering down in a one-kneed kneel to offer up the satchel. Taking it from him he gave a nod then turned around to go back to setting up the saddle for the riding lizard. It reminded him of the one he used to have, before his mother killed and ate it. How ironic that he used one of the ribs from that same animal to pierce through her black heart.

For long he had survived like this, using subterfuge, manipulation. Sooner or later it was going to come back on him.

Phaezil moved away, leaving the Hunter to his thoughts, which he was so obviously within. A glance back and he continued about his way, returning to the House. The travel would be a long one to the City of Shimmering Webs. Long and boring. He had ways to keep himself occupied, though. Running his tongue over his lips he spat to the ground, getting rid of Dena'veils taste as much as he could.

At least her scent was washed off of his body. If it was possible he would have scrubbed himself red. Ebony flesh didn't allow that.

Ched Nasad. 

He hated that place, mainly because it was filled but nothing but Lloth followers. Claddath was once of that city, but when it had been taken to secrecy it had moved from one to another, and another.

Placing his foot within the stirrup he slung his other leg over, settling down comfortably upon the soft saddle. With an irritable hiss the lizard was moved onward with a nudge of heels into its sides. Thankfully it was a wall-climber, he would have to pass over several cities before he could get to his destination. First he would either have to go around, or through Menzoberranzan just to get there. It was a large place, and one lone Drow upon a riding lizard shouldn't raise too many brows. He wasn't too sure about the time, but he knew it was beyond the Black Death of Narbondel, midnight.

It didn't matter. As long as he got to Ched Nasad unscathed, nothing mattered.


	2. House Zauviir

The trip through Menzoberranzan was droll and, thankfully, uneventful.

By the time he had arrived, it was Narbondel's Peak; noon. Though if asked the day, he wouldn't have been sure. There were no time constraints on this contract, and so he didn't have to have too much concern about what day of the week it was, at least not until he arrived at The City of Shimmering Webs. There, he would find out that information and judge how long it would take for the Matron and her beloved daughter to fall. It could have been days, maybe even weeks.

"You! Male! Hold there!"

He could tell by tone and accent alone that the Drow that addressed him was of noble heritage and, most of all, a female. Posing as a simple soldier, he let logic stamp down his irritation and immediately took to a knee.

The woman approached, guarded by two others, and stood before him, her soft-hide boot scuffing the ground beneath her heel. He settled his gaze upon her feet, then rose his eyes just enough to look upon her knees, though his eyes were lured higher when he felt the cool touch of a blade beneath his chin. Though his head lifted, the half-lidded kept their partially lowered state as she looked upon him, her eyes drifting over his form as if he were but a prime piece of fresh meat. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

"Lazing away around the fountain, are we?" The tip of the blade tapped against his chin then was sheathed again as she placed her hand against the flare of a curved hip.

"Just a bit of rest before I go home, Mistress." He had to change his accent, just a bit. Being of noble birth as well, she would undoubtedly become suspicious that a lowly soldier would have that particular lilt to their words, and so his native tongue came harsh to the ears. Guttural.

"Who are you?" Her words were forceful, commanding. She was one that was used to being obeyed without hesitation.

"I am Rizzen D'arthius of house Teken'duis, Lady." He took a quick glance upward, catching the sigil of her own house. Ironic luck. Simply ironic. She was from Zauviir. He then spoke out of turn. "If I am no longer needed, Lady…" Trailing off, his hint was made, and beyond his notice, azure eyes flashed in irritation. He knew what kind of reaction his audacity would gain; if she wanted him gone, she would've sent him away instead of waiting for him to excuse himself. She snorted and gave a duo of snaps, bringing the guards behind her to attention.

"No, you will follow me." Luckily he was able to keep his smirk to himself. Evanshalee and Nathrae will soon meet their ends.

Waiting until her feet had passed him he rose to a stand and curled his fingers against the edge of the cloak to keep his hands in view at all times, as well as conceal the dual swords at his hips. It would not do well for them to be seen. Quietly, he followed the woman, glancing over the city slowly as he did so. Everywhere silver shimmered, glistening from the torches of fairy fire that were dotted here and there upon the streets. People had to have amazing balance to be able to tread those webs. He might not have been highly experienced in that department, but he was adequate enough.

Eventually they came upon a large estate and, with the parting of the guards, they were lead into the building. A few hallways taken he assessed each of his exits, something he always did, even unconsciously.

Upon entering a dining area he was able to see the two that needed to be beneath his blade. Nathrae lifted her head, settling her eyes upon the male that was being brought into the room with her daughter while she took her place next to her mother's side. He lowered upon a knee, draping a forearm upon the other that was risen. The violet gaze of the woman traveled over his form slowly, then with a lifted brow she side glanced to her daughter. Zilvra leaned to the side, whispering to her mother, speaking what she knew of him while he remained absolutely silent, his head bowed.

The questioning was simple. Who was he? Where did he come from? What is his business here? Each question was given a suitable answer; His faux-name was again stated, as well as House. The city was of Chad Nasad, just to keep suspicions low. And his business was just that of a simple soldier preparing to guard a caravan that was soon to go to the surface. This caught the attention of both of them; Nathrae and Zilvra. Come to find out the daughter was to go to the surface and she needed a guide. Luck was with him that he was chosen for the duties. Either do or die. Cynical humor might have had him smile if it was in his character. He agreed, but with some reluctance.

Beckoned to sit with the lesser males the eyes of the Matron remained upon him, studying his noble features, the way he moved; none unlike a feline, graceful and silent. It attracted the woman, and Nasid was furious. Before the eyes of others the favored male was treated like any other male, though behind closed doors Nasid and Nathrae were lovers. The Hunter caught this and he used it to his advantage, especially when he was asked who his 'owner' was.

"I have none, High Lady. The last who has claimed me as mate has been killed by a rival House."

"How unfortunate," she stated with no hint of remorse. "You were satisfactory then?"

"I am alive, High Lady."

That was enough to pique her interests further. If he was a terrible lover he would have been killed so long ago. Not only that, but he would have been killed if his Lady was. Not left to live to further plague Underdark with his presence. The corner of her mouth faintly rose and she shifted slightly, draping her lithe frame within the throne she was settled upon. Slowly her fingers began a trail against her dark flesh. Nasid curled his fingers at his sides, quivering in rage.

"Yes, I see that. Quite satisfactory I would imagine."

"I have yet to breed sons."

He shrugged faintly and the opposing male gave a sound of fury before moving to the middle of the floor and lowering to a knee. Nathrae ignored him for the time, her eyes upon The Hunter while his own eyes remained on Nasid. This was almost too much fun. The rage that basically dripped from the male pores was tasteful to the senses. Apparently Nasid was furious because he had yet to do the opposite. While he was an adequate bed warmer, his genes just would not let him give his Mistress any daughters. Each of his sons had been killed. Not like he cared. He was, after all, a follower of Lloth, and it was to be expected.

A soft sound of pleasure came from the woman and she motioned for a guard to near. Pulling from his position he approached and lowered down to listen to what she had to say. He was oblivious, but most likely knew what was going on. Bored, Zilvra lifted to a stand and walked toward the balcony that would allow her to look over a portion of the city. He followed her briefly with his discrete gaze then returned his attention to Nasid as the Matron spoke to him. He was angry, that much was obvious. He was a fool letting his emotions run his actions.

He wouldn't be surprised if he was to be slaughtered after this night.

Once he was dismissed, he found his name being called by Zilvra and so he stepped out upon the balcony with her as well. For a short time they spoke. He was to return to his home and gather up the maps he had of the surface and come back to House Zauviir within three days. As he turned away to head off a guard had approached him. It seemed the Matron wanted to see him once he had received his supplies.

Continuing about his way he felt he was being watched; It seemed the daughter was sending a scout to follow him, to see just where he would disappear to. He had no worry of this, not when he knew he could elude her easily. His travel took him down into the hold of the city, and he made his way in the direction of the slave auction. Feigning interest in the captives around the cages, he approached them slowly before his eyes lit upon something he didn't think he would see in the city; a half-dragon. He…she…wasn't a slave, she seemed to be guarding the caravan. If this wasn't his chance to cause a distraction, then nothing would be.

"What are you looking at, shorty?"

"Mm, you _are_ female, interesting. As for looking at, I am just wondering if there is more brawn than brains in that head of yours. By the complete sentence you made there _is_ some minimal intelligence."

Back and forth this taunting went until, with an enraged roar, she leapt at him, swinging the bludgeoning device for his head. He was quicker than she thought and he ducked low, coming around to her side with a mocking smile. Slowly she began to approach, and he backed up, purposely coming to a locked cage of about twenty kobolds. He hated those lizard-like rats on two legs, but they could come in grand handy when he needed them to.

Placing his hand behind him he jimmied at the lock that was holding the gate closed with a pick, and then slowly slid it free. Holding the lock in hand he ceased the apologetic words, only to offer a harsh insult which caused her to suddenly lunge at him. He leapt up, pulling free the gate and using her lowered shoulder as a foot step he pushed off and over her, also allowing him to kick her into the cage. Kobolds scattered, bringing havoc into the auction and sending Drow to scatter here and there. Locking the gate and the half-dragon within the cage he turned, sinking into the crowd to vanish out of sight. He could have sworn that he heard a cry of anger from his shadow.

Sometimes it was just too easy.


	3. Matron Nathrae

All in all, it had been an eventful few weeks. He was hired by a hidden source to kill the Matron Mother and the first daughter of House Zauviir, he had gotten away from one of Zilvra's lackeys, leaving her wondering where in the world he disappeared to. Three days later, he had returned as he said he would with a satchel over his shoulders weighed with various maps of the surface. Some of them fake, the others questionable.

"You have been summoned to the Matron's chambers."

The male that had spoken to him was derisive in his words. He ignored it though, and could only guess that either he was one of the Matron's past lovers, current lover, or one that never had a chance to warm her bed.

Dipping his chin in an imperceptible, nod he turned his gaze away from the male and returned to what he was doing. Zilvra had passed, giving him a glance over as his eyes lowered to the ground then, with a snort, she passed. Garnet eyes slipped in the direction of her departing form, only to find his head snapping to the side harshly by a strike. Someone had caught the look. It was Zilvra's sister.

"Impudent male. I saw you gaze upon her. You should be whipped." Her strong fingers grasped his chin, jerking his head up as he licked the corner of his mouth, tasting the faint copper of blood. Sometimes it was a wonder on why most of the females were taller and stronger then the men when it was the opposite with surface elves. Perhaps it was the simple fact that they were ruled by a spider queen.

Her fingertips and nails pressed harshly against the ebony skin as she looked upon his face, noting his features. The Matron wasn't the only one he had interested, he could tell. She leaned close, and he could smell the poison upon her lips, and gave the appropriate response of flinching backward. She laughed, a cruel sound, and shoved his head back with the release of her grip.

_So high and mighty_, he thought. _I will be pleased __when your blood is on my blade. Enjoy your life within the little time you have, female. Your death comes __soon._

He could have dodged the strike, yes. But then that would have roused too many questions, as well as tempted her to use that snake whip that was writhing and twisting at her side. That was something he didn't want to meet any time soon. Not again.

Lifting a hand he rubbed his jaw slowly once they were out of sight then roamed off to the chambers that were allowed to him while they prepared for Zilvra to head to the surface.

He remembered his first time there, his blooding. Him, along side of twelve other Drow warriors, took to the surface at night. He recalled how enthralled he was of the beauty that was the tiny sliver of moon within its crescent shape. His kind always did admire beauty in several forms. Everything was so different there, so _bright_. The scents were luring to the nose, the sounds were a cacophony of music from the chirp of night birds to the song of crickets. The surface world was alive where in Underdark one was lucky to break the silence with a solitary drop of water.

The task was to be easy. Catch the surface Elves off guard and slaughter every single one of them. The task _was_ easy. He had a few kills beneath his belt that night. They weren't the first to fall to his blades, nor would they be the last. His current life proved of this.

The act of killing those elves was somewhat against what Vhaerun believed. Elves, dark and surface alike, are to join together and be the dominant race. That was impossible with one attempting, or succeeding, in killing the other. He didn't feel remorse or pity for what he did. He was young, though, and knew nothing of that particular God. Nonetheless, like his father once told him, sometimes people have to die for the greater good. What was the greater good of killing Evanshalee and Nathrae, he wondered? What part of a hidden scheme did he play in? He dared not to ask questions of Dena'veil. Later, in the end, everything would be revealed to him.

Shaking such thoughts from his head he pressed open the room's door and settled his pack within. Checking over the innards of the chambers he nodded, satisfied, then closed the door behind him to make his way toward Matron Nathrae's quarters. Everywhere he looked there were images of the Spider Queen.

_To __the __Nine Hells with her._

Lloth sees all, they say. If that was true then it would be known of his betrayal. He would have been sacrificed ages ago. Then again, he was once the favored son, and still is even if 'adopted' by another Matron; Dena'veil Teken'duis. A woman that became Matron, only through the death of her sister by his hands.

It was only ironic that he would flee to the very person he put to power after he killed his mother. He couldn't stick behind at the house, not with them knowing who killed the woman. Indeed, he should have been out of Lloth's favor at that time. Maybe he was. Dena'veil believed that her disfavor would fall to her house once Istovir showed up, but since his personal hiring, and bringing him into the house as her own, they've had nothing but success.

Though, considering he got away with the murder, perhaps it was Istintaya, his mother, who dropped out of the Spider Queens regard. The woman had it in her mind that he played an integral part because of this. It was perhaps it why Dena'veil hadn't killed him yet. Even if she seemed to favor him as a 'son,' as a lover, he always watched his back.

And his front as well.

Casually he ignored the pin point red of eyes that settled upon him as he passed, doing what he needed to get to the chambers be it lowering to a kneel, or dipping his chin down to avoid the gazes of many. His clothing held no house emblem, though he did have the symbol of his faux house within his pouch. His hair wasn't cut to resemble his status, or even his family. It was long, unkempt. One would almost think him a rogue if it wasn't for the way he carried himself.

Lowering before the chamber door of the Matron he lifted his hand, rapping three times upon the surface before dropping his hand again, keeping it away from his weaponry. Just how long he remained there he wasn't sure, but he heard voices just beyond the door. She wasn't alone. It didn't matter. He didn't have the decision to kill her that night. It could wait. He still had three days to destroy the both of them before he had to go out upon the surface. He wasn't to go to show Zilvra around, but for his own means and purposes. At least he told the truth about roaming with a slave caravan. His employer was there.

"Enter," came a lulling voice from the other side of the door, and he pushed up to a stand. Taking a hold of the handle that resembled the bulbous backside of a spider, he gave it a slight twist and pushed further into the room. It was dark, as most rooms were in the World Below, lit by the harmless flames of faerie fire. The room was oval shape, and had only one visible exit, but he knew there had to be others. No Matron would allow herself trapped, unless she felt sure of her abilities.

Nathrae laid there, decked in all her finery. A thin meshing of spider silk lined her hair, bringing even more of a shimmer to it within the light of the purple-blue flames. She wore nothing save for a silken robe loosely draped about her body, the front left open for a teasing view of shapely dark flesh. Only a hint of white would briefly catch the attention, and he figured she sat like that purposely to see if he would give into temptation. He didn't, though, and his eyes remained low, focusing upon the foot that swung slowly off of the side of the throne. Nasid was there as well, armed, and staring bladed daggers at him. If looks could kill, The Hunter would have been dead a thousand times over.

"Strip, Rizzen. Completely." He found it amusing that he had used his brother's name, but no hint of that crossed his features or his mind. He didn't argue, simply lifted a gloved hand to unclasp the latch of _piwafwi_. It was folded and carefully placed to the ground as was the rest of his clothing. Nathrae noticed how he paid special attention to his things, and even more to the double blades he had settled aside.

Once he was bared for her eyes he tucked his hands behind him, loosely clasping one in the other within a militant pose. Lifting a slender hand she motioned to Nasid, then to him.

"Check him."

A razor-sharp smile crossed over the lips of the Patron and he moved away from his position to near the bare assassin, who impassively turned his attention from the swaying foot to the nearing male. Though something in that garnet gaze made the Patron give pause. A silent threat was there, and it wasn't empty:

_Touch me and die__ painfully._


End file.
